Justice for a farmworker

Justice. We all like to believe that justice will be served when a wrong is committed.
But I am beginning to question whether there is justice for everyone on an equal basis. In fact, my belief in the justice system is quickly eroding. I say this after finding out that the individuals responsible for the heatstroke death of a 17-year-old farmworker may not serve jail time because of a plea deal that is being worked on.
Maria Isabel Jimenez died in May 2008 after working in a vineyard outside of Stockton, CA. When the circumstances surrounding her death became known, not only was there outrage but international media coverage about her death.
I wrote the following piece to mark the one-year anniversary of her death. I think it is appropriate to share it again.


It was a year ago today that in vineyard in San Joaquin County, a few miles east of Stockton, a 17-year-old girl collapsed.
She died two days later due to heatstroke.
Her death should have been prevented.
Maria Isabel Vasquez Jimenez had been working nine hours. It was an unseasonably hot day. According to reports the temperature hoovered around 96 degrees. But anyone who has worked or stepped foot in an ag field knows the temperature is often several degrees higher.
During those nine hours she was denied drinking water and shade.
California's heat regulation law requires employers provide drinking water and shade and regular rest breaks for any employee working in the sun when the temperature reaches a certain threshold.
This didn't happen in Maria Isabel's case. When she collapsed in her fiance's arms, supervisors refused to call emergency personnel. Instead ordering the driver who had brought them to take the whole crew home.
Eventually Maria Isabel was taken to a clinic, where nurses called an ambulance to have her taken to the hospital. But by then it was too late.
At the hospital, doctors learned she had been two months pregnant.
Maria Isabel remained on life support for a couple of days before her family - and uncle and aunt - made the difficult and heartbreaking decision to have her taken off life support.
At a time when Maria Isabel should have been enjoying life like most teenagers, she was making adult decisions. She left her home in Oaxaca, Mexico and made the journey to the United States in order to help her widowed mother and siblings.
She arrived in February 2008 full of hope. She came out of love for her family. She loved them enough to leave them at the tender age of 17 in order to help them.
But instead of the endless possibility she had hoped to encounter, she encountered death.
When her death and the circumstances surrounding it came to light - thanks to the coverage of Univison 19 in Sacramento - there was outrage and sadness that this could happen.
The United Farm Workers organized a peregrinacion in her honor to the state Capitol. I was the communications director at the time.
Along the way people from all walks of life would stop and ask what the march was for. All had heard Maria Isabel's tragic story.
Her death received national and international coverage.
But a year a later how many still remember her?
Her mother will surely remember the daughter who she no doubt saw leave their small pueblo full of hope only to return in an ataud.
I for one will not forget her. Her death, still brings tears to my eyes. The thought of her returning home in a box and alone haunts my memory.
We can't forget her, for doing so would mean her death was in vain. And we as a society cannot let that happen. 

And I will add this, we cannot let those responsible for her death escape with merely paying a fine. For that would be the cruelest of injustices and would send a message that the life of a farmworker not only has a price, but is expendable.

Forever...is it possible?

Forever.
I've been thinking a lot about this during the past couple of days ever since the news of Al and Tipper Gore separating after 40 years made headlines.
Only the Gores know the reason behind their decision, and that's exactly how it should be.
But it made me think: does anything really last forever in this day and age?
The ideal behind being with someone until the moment you take your dying breath is beautiful. But is it realistic?
Part of the problem is that people change as time moves forward. And that often means that the person you were, say, at 20, is not the same person you are when you reach 40.
I like to think we evolve and grow as we age, and I believe this is where the problem lies. Change, in any form, is difficult for people to accept.
What happens when one person keeps growing while the other maintains the status quo?
I know there are couples who embody the ideal of 'forever' and I find that beautiful. There are stories of the elderly couple who when one dies the other follows not long after.
And I don't think forever has to do with love, but rather with passion. If you love someone, you will always love that person whether you are with them or not. But passion, is what keeps things lively and interesting. Without passion you are simply going through the motions.
And in all honesty, you have to ask yourself do you really want to spend 'forever' without passion?

24 Hours

Twenty-four hours.

It's a sunrise and a sunset.

It is one day of the 365 that make up a year.

And I'm willing to wager that most of us don't give those 24 hours a second thought.

But what if you only had 24 hours left to live?

The question arose after watching a segment on the TODAY Show about a new book that explores this very topic.

So of course, this set my mind in motion. What would I do if I only had 24 hours left?

My mind filled with the many things I have yet to do, places still unexplored and cultures and people yet to meet.

But 24 hours means setting priorities. So much to do with so little time. I know I wouldn't waste a second.

First I would record a video message for those individuals who are such a huge part of my life. The first thing I would tell them is laugh. Laugh as you recall the good times we shared, those wacky moments of which there are many. And smile at the quiet times we spent just talking and sharing.

The remaining hours would be spent with the one person who knows me - who knows my heart better than any other person on this planet. The only man who has ever told me to never change who I am. He is the one who accepts mi fuerte caracter and my warrior spirit.

I would spend those hours talking to to him; letting him know that although we've only been in each others lives a couple of years, the impact he has had on my life and what he means to me.

I would thank him por coincidir con mi destino.

I would listen to his heart beat as his arms wrapped tightly around me. I would breathe in his scent so as not to forget it.

We'd walk along the beach hand-in-hand, watching the waves crash onto the shore.

And finally we'd watch the sunset.

Those final hours would be filled with love and laughter - and no regrets.

Not a second wasted on pleas or wishes for more time.

For the biggest tragedy is not having been in each others lives for such a short time, but rather having never met.

So my question for you is: how would you spend your 24 hours?

La Virgen de Guadalupe

Hay un dicho en Mexico, a saying.

"Si no crees en la Virgen de Guadalupe, no eres en realidad Mexicano." (If you don't believe in the Virgin of Guadalupe, you aren't truly Mexican.)

Last year I fulfilled una manda, a promise I made to La Morenita. I had promised her I would visit the Basilica and thank her in person if she interceded on my behalf. I had asked for her help in 2006, but unforeseen circumstances forced me to wait two years before making good on my promise to her.

Asking for her help was not new to me. I grew up listening to my Papa Nato, my grandfather, ask for her help. Whenever he asked for her intervention he would send her a gift in care of the Basilica. And every December he also sent a small donation.

So it was that in the early morning hours of Dec. 10, 2008 I was aboard an overnight flight headed to el Distrito Federal...Mexico City.

My original intent was to visit the Basilica on Dec. 12, the anniversary of the miracle of Tepeyac. But after talking with a couple I met at the Guadalajara airport while waiting for a connecting flight, I decided it was best to go on the 11th.

From my hotel I took a taxi to the Basilica. With the surrounding streets closed to traffic, I asked the driver to drop me off as close as possible. I ended up walking four or so blocks.

I made my way among the countless souvenir stands which sold everything from rosaries to T-shirts with images of La Morenita, as well as paintings and sculptures.

Finally, I emerged from the maze of stands where I encountered thousands of people slowly winding their way up the street to the main entrance of Tepeyac, the hill on which the Basilica is built. I joined the peregrinos and walked in silence.

When I finally stepped through the open gates I was awestruck, everywhere my gaze fell were peregrinos. The vast majority carried paintings or statues of La Virgen.

I made my way into the cathedral that is home to Juan Diego's tilma which held the roses and where underneath those same roses was the image of La Virgen de Guadalupe, patroness of Mexico and all the Americas.

The church was packed. Taking a spot in the back, I decided to stay for the Mass. During this time of year, Masses are held every hour. Young girls in their school uniforms walk around carrying baskets filled with small cards bearing the image of the Virgen, which are sold for a donation of 10 pesos.

When the Mass ended, I joined the never-ending sea of humanity that shuffled toward the front of the church to pay homage to La Virgen.

It took more than an hour to reach the front - which was covered in red roses - gifts brought by the people for La Virgen. Before I knew it, I was getting ready to step onto one of the five or so people-movers that slowly pass in front of the image of La Virgen, which had the Mexican flag draped below it.

I gazed up her, thanking her for all she has done for me, for protecting me and those I love. I told her it would not be my last visit. Like so many others I snapped a few photos before stepping off the people-mover.

I spent the entire day on the grounds of the Basilica de Santa Maria de Guadalupe. Tepeyac is home to the new Basilica built in the mid-70s, la Basilica Antigua - which during my visit was undergoing renovation and shrouded in scaffolding - and numerous other chapels as well as numerous statues. All of it awe-inspiring.

But what struck me the most were the people. The majority had traveled untold miles by foot, others by bicycle, some came on their knees, others with large paintings strapped to their backs. There was one man dressed in the white shirt and pants reminiscent of a peasant from a bygone era, who was on his knees and blindfolded aided by two women on either side holding his arms, guiding his every step.

Words cannot do justice to what I experienced while there. I do know I won't forget the visit.

La Virgen de Guadalupe has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I ask for her protection and guidance every day. She is part of my spiritual life. And as I told her, I will be back to visit and thank her for all she does for me.

Lest we forget...

Veterans Day.

For some it's a day off. For others it's simply another work day.

But for some it is a time to pause and remember those who gave their lives in wars all too often, long-forgotten.

Originally known as Armistice Day, it marked the "end of hostilities" between the Allies and Germany during World War I and took effect at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. It was supposed to be the "war to end all wars." But sadly, more wars have followed.

After World War II, Armistice Day became Veterans Day. In many parts where observances are held a moment of silence is observed at 11 a.m.

A few years ago while working in the Tri-Cities in Washington, I did a story on The Moving Wall, a traveling replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The week-long visit coincided with Veterans Day.

I wrote several stories: I spoke with Vietnam veterans prior to its arrival; another as it was put together; and a longer piece looking at the week it was there and those who went to visit The Wall.

But I also did a search to see if there were any Adames listed on The Wall.

There are two. Gilbert Adame who was from Colton, Ca. and Arthur Adame from San Antonio, Texas.

I wrote down Panel 48E where Gilbert's name rested. A fellow Californian I felt compelled to find his name on The Wall. I never bothered writing down the panel where Arthur's name rested.

In the summer of 2004 I found myself in Washington DC attending a minority journalism conference. Arriving a couple days early I went to visit the various memorials.
Upon arriving at The Wall, my heart sank. The part of The Wall that held Gilbert's name was closed for upgrades to the lighting. I left not bothering to look up Arthur's name.

The next day my friend Melissa arrived. That evening we decided to may a nocturnal visit to the monuments.

After walking up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and standing among the statues of soldiers at the Korean War Memorial, we made our way over to The Wall.

Walking down the path we arrived at the center of The Wall. Only the western side was open and we slowly made our way up the path, Melissa walking a few paces in front of me.

I wasn't looking for any particular name. I took a few steps and stopped. Something was compelling me to reach out to The Wall and run my fingers over the names engraved on the black granite.

My fingers made a semi-arch, lightly touching the names before coming to a stop on a name. As I was about to turn and walk away, I caught a glimpse of the name my fingers had come to rest on.

Arthur Adame.

I froze. I stood speechless, a chill running up my spine.

I finally found my voice and called Melissa over. Her eyes expressed the disbelief I felt.

How was it possible that out of more than 58,000 names, I would happen upon the name of Arthur Adame?

Upon returning home I turned to the Internet to find out what I could about Arthur Pina Adame.

Born April 8, 1949, Arthur was from San Antonio, Texas. He served in the Army with D Company, 1st Battalion 5th U.S. Cavalry 1st Cavalry Division. He began his tour of duty Dec. 11, 1969 - a few days before I was born.

He wasn't in Vietnam long. Arthur died in Cambodia on May 22, 1970, some five months after shipping out.

He was only 21. Had he lived, Arthur would now be 60-years-old.

I learned he was posthumously promoted to sergeant and is buried at Ft. Sam Houston National Cemetery in San Antonio.

I know finding his name on The Wall was not a coincidence.

I know in my heart that Arthur guided me to Panel 10W, Row 078 where his name rests as a reminder of what he gave for his country.

Every Veterans Day I pause to remember.

Sgt. Adame, your sacrifice will not be forgotten.

From the fields to the stars

As we head into Hispanic Heritage Month I can think of no better time than to pay tribute to a true hero.

I'm going to talk about a man who is a dear friend, who overcame obstacles and who at this moment is literally out of this world. On Aug. 28 he blasted off into space aboard the space shuttle Discovery. He and the rest of the crew are expected to head back to earth in a few days.

Jose M. Hernandez serves as a mission specialist II/flight engineer. For Jose, this was the culmination of a dream that was years in the making. Through his hard work and dogged determination his dream came true.

Hernandez was born in San Joaquin County, just outside Stockton. His parents, Salvador and Julia Hernandez were migrant farm workers who every year along with Jose's two older brothers and sister would leave La Piedad, Michoacan and head to California. Every year beginning in March they followed the harvest starting in the Imperial Valley and finishing in the Stockton area. By mid-November they would begin the two-day car trip back to Michoacan.

Jose still tells the tale of how his dad would heat cans of Campbell's' soup on the car's engine block.

Although Jose didn't learn English until he was 12, he had an aptitude for math. Which would come to serve him well later on.

The yearly trips meant that Jose and his siblings would leave a few months after the school year began. His parents would tell their children to get enough school work for the months they would be gone. It stopped when one of Jose's teachers met with Don Salvador and Dona Julia and convinced them they needed to stay so their children could get an education.

Even though the family settled in Stockton, it was by no means the end of laboring in the fields. On weekends and during school vacation Jose and his siblings worked alongside their parents in the fields.

It was in those fields that the seed to go into space took root.

Jose was hoeing a row of beets when he heard over his transistor radio that Franklin Chang-Diaz, a Costa Rican, would be the first Latino in space. Jose was a senior in high school at the time.

It was at that moment Jose decided to follow in Chang-Diaz's footsteps.

But making it to liftoff proved to be a challenge. Although he held a bachelor's degree from the University of the Pacific and a master's from UC Santa Barbara, getting into the astronaut program was no easy task.

Jose applied 12 times before being accepted in 2004 into the 19th astronaut class.

His is a story of determination, inspiration and above all else hope. He held tight to the hope that one day he would fly in space. He can now say mission accomplished.

He'll receive a hero's welcome when he gets back. Plans are underway for a huge celebration tentatively slated for October. His future plans aren't concrete yet. There's talk of possibly working for NASA. And there's also the possibility of a run for Congress. But for now, as evidenced by the huge smile on his face in the numerous photos from the space station, he is still soaking in the experience of floating among the stars.

For nearly two weeks, he has been living his dream.

And just like he did long ago planting seeds that would one day reap a bountiful harvest, Jose is now planting a different type of seed.

It is the seed of hope; one that will reap a harvest of endless possibilities for other Latinos for generations to come.

And his field is the endless expanse of space.

La Bendicion

Tradiciones.
It's something that goes hand-in-hand with being Mexican - or Latino, for that matter.
I'm sure we can all name at least three that we practice. And chances are, we probably are
not consciously aware that we are doing them.
I don't think I'd be too far off base if I said La Bendicion is the most practiced among us.
If you have an abuela or papa,
you never leave the house without getting this blessing.
A touching scene occurs every morning as commuters gather on the platform to wait for the BART train. It quietly unfolds and goes unnoticed by most. But for me, it's a moment that brings back memories buried deep in my mind.
A mother and son arrive to board their respective trains.
Before he heads off to catch his train that will take him to school, the teen who appears to be about 14, steps in front of his mama and waits.
Her hand touches his forehead where she begins the sign of the Cross. She utters a few words intended for only mother and son.
And as quickly as it began, it's over.
La Bendicion.
As a child, each night before I headed off to bed, I'd stop in front of the recliner where my Papa Nato sat. I'd wait patiently as he gave me his bendicion.
I couldn't tell you when I stopped this nightly ritual. Probably around the time I headed into those horrid teen years.
But it was only later I learned that, although I had stopped this ritual, Papa Nato continued giving me his blessing.
Before heading off to bed himself, he'd stop at the door of my bedroom and give his bendicion.
I woke one night to see his silhouetted figure in the doorway with his hand moving in that familiar ritual.
I never mentioned it to him, but I'm sure he knew I had found out about his nightly routine.
Having his blessing always made feel safe. as if he was always with me.
As we grow older, we have a tendency to forget those tradiciones, which are undeniably a huge part of our lives.
And sometimes it is only when we become adults that we realize the importance of these tradiciones.
Granted, some people may not understand our family or cultural tradiciones, but that shouldn't stop us from practicing them. It's a part of understanding one another better.
La Bendicion.
As I grow older, it becomes more and more a part of my life. Before every trip, I perform my own "self-blessing."
And when I know a good friend is about to begin a new work assignment or new semester, I send him my bendicion via text message. I suppose you can say it's tradicion a la the electronic age.
It's been 20 years since Papa Nato died. There are times when I wish he were still here to give his bendicion. But even though he is not here physically, I know he still gives me his blessing.
Someday, I hope to pass on this tradicion ton my own children, while at the same time explaining the special place it holds in my heart.